Victor Andersen, 80, uses a hand grinder to shape the edge of a piece of iron recently at the Tustin Blacksmith Shop. MACKENZIE REISS, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

Most all of the county's farms, cattle and orange trees have long since been replaced with houses, shopping centers, yoga studios and hybrid cars, but one anachronism remains – in Tustin.

A blacksmith pounding, molding and shaping soft metal.

Victor Andersen started out sweeping the floors of the Tustin Blacksmith Shop, 245 S. C St., as a 13-year-old in the late 1940s.

He learned the trade from his father, who had moved the family to Orange County from Colorado.

Andersen, 80, took over the shop in 1960 after his father died and, according to a city of Tustin historical survey, is believed to be the only blacksmith left in Orange County.

"I've been running around this place for 66 years," he said. "That's a hell of a long time."

Andersen, whose father worked for the shop's previous owner, Hans Johnson, still remembers the days when Tustin had a second blacksmith shop on Main Street. Irvine had one as well. There was a lot of work to go around in those days.

"We used to have a lot of good work from the farmers," he said. "That changed. It still stays kind of busy. A little slow. But it's been a little slow everywhere, I guess."

Andersen and his wife, Kathy – married 56 years – bought a house in Orange, where they raised a daughter and son, now 50 and 46.

Andersen, who wakes at 6 a.m., opens the shop at 7 a.m. each weekday and many Saturdays. His uniform consists of a powder blue work shirt with a name patch sewn on the chest, slightly baggy blue pants and black boots, worn to the point that the steel tips are showing. A welding cap that he wears backward completes his ensemble.

A blacksmith traditionally worked with wrought iron or steel to construct objects by hammering, bending and cutting the metal, including Orange County's farm equipment of previous generations.

In this day and age, Andersen handles almost any and every repair of anything made of metal that local residents and businesses bring to him. He still uses the traditional tools of the trade, including a blacksmith table and anvil as old as the shop, a forge and a vise.

He still makes old-fashioned bean knives – long pieces of metal with razor-like edges used to slice lima beans – for one bean farmer, compared to about 15 farmers several decades ago. Most of the items he repairs, however, are modern and not as sturdy as the equipment he used to fix and construct.

"Things are made so damn light," he said, motioning to a mobile television stand that the Tustin Unified School District gave him to repair.

A birdcage that needed its floor reinforced, a couple of chairs that each needed a leg fixed and a metal stake to hold an outdoor lantern are examples of the things he fixes and makes for his customers in this century. His prices depend on the job, and, in an era where consumers can make almost any kind of purchase online, are determined in a face-to-face interaction at his shop.

In his 53 years owning the shop, Andersen briefly hired one employee to serve as his assistant, but his new hire didn't prove to be competent enough.

"It didn't take me long to figure out I was losing my time keeping him going," he said.

So he's spent most of the last half-century working in solitude, with the double doors to his shop open to anyone who wants to walk in, among mounds and piles of metal pipes and pieces and all sorts of odds and ends. Most of it is left over from previous jobs he's done, but Andersen thinks most of it could still be put to use.

"I got to get rid of a bunch of stuff. It's all good stuff if you can find a place to put it," he said, pointing out a wheel that looks like it might go to a wheelbarrow and a 2-foot piece of pipe that could be used to replace a broken piece of gutter.

Around noon, Andersen breaks for lunch in his office, a small room in the front of the shop that maybe three people could squeeze inside. Stacks upon stacks of magazines and books are on his desk and the floor. The walls are adorned with pictures of his wife and two kids. Hundreds of keys hang on the wall just inside the doorway.

"Don't ask me where all the keys go," he said, "because I don't know."

Blacksmithing might not provide the steady income it used to, but Andersen also benefits from owning the building next door, 275 S. C St., which is rented out by HBP Dance Extreme. He said he's owned it long enough to live off it.

While Andersen has single-handedly carried his trade into a future without much demand for it, he doesn't know what will become of his shop after his tenure comes to an end. His son, a mechanic, never took to blacksmithing the way his father and grandfather did.

"The shop could always be here," he said. "I'll give it to my boy when I die. He can do with it what he wants to. No need to worry about the future; it'll happen anyhow."

As for his future, Andersen will continue to put on his well-worn, slightly frayed uniform and go to work at the only job he's ever known, using the only equipment he's ever known.

"No sense in retiring," he said. "Might as well sit down and die then, don't you think?"

User Agreement

Keep it civil and stay on topic. No profanity, vulgarity, racial
slurs or personal attacks. People who harass others or joke about
tragedies will be blocked. By posting your comment, you agree to
allow Orange County Register Communications, Inc. the right to
republish your name and comment in additional Register publications
without any notification or payment.